I spend a third to a half of my time trying to crawl back onto the grid. I want a job. I want a place to curl up and settle my breathing. I miss shopping. I miss J. Jill. The new catalog is great. I want to rip up the stained carpet and put down the wood floors I've been saving up for.
I want. I want. I want.
There is something so expansive and full of the possible, however, in those days when I meet another freelancer for lunch and we sit in the midday sun blinking like moles. Of course, the life of a freelancer is rugged. Possibly too rugged for a slug like me. If I wasn't underwritten by the GA-DOL, I'd be screaming by now. Or babysitting. (And I will be babysitting really soon.)
And hosting writing classes.
And cleaning out garages.
And heading back to Florida to be the one who doesn't tell the Knuckle she's got a lot to live for. If there's anything we've ever seen eye to eye on, it's our willingness to talk about dying. So that when she says to me, as she has to sister in law and the nurse and the physical therapist that she wants to be with her husband and son (both dead), I can nod and say "I'll bet you do."
It's absolutely and entirely possible that I don't have a job so that I can have the 'freedom' to help her with this. Who knows? Not me.